


Caldarium

by osamakes (sinuous_curve)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dorian Pavus: Hedonistic Brat Level 9000, Hand Jobs, Hedonism, Incidental Nipple Rings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/osamakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's far more to a proper bath than just water. Dorian will brook no argument on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caldarium

**Author's Note:**

> The doc title was, "working at the magewash," which I will defend as funny as hell. All information on Roman baths comes from Wikipedia and a history class my freshman year of college. 
> 
> On tumblr as osamakes. Heyo.

The first time Dorian asks for soap, the harassed requisition officer hands him a lopsided cake that smells faintly of dead templar rotting in the Hinterlands sun. He assumes at first it must be a joke, for lack of a better term. Or perhaps a pointed commentary on the general southern attitude toward Tevinter mages. 

But when he asks for the _real_ soap, if you please, he is informed that there isn't any other soap. The _you poncy northern idiot_ is left unsaid. 

Dorian would no more wash the floor with such a poor excuse for an agent of cleanliness than he would scrub mud into his clothes and call them good as new. So he goes to Seggrit, despite the man sending little shudders of revulsion down his spine. Price gouging is the height of declasse barbarism. 

He puts twenty coins -- that are gold _and_ real -- into Seggrit's hand. Two weeks later, Seggrit delivers a tiny cake of plain, unscented white soap. Dorian looks at it, reminded forcibly of scrubbing alchemical accidents off his hands in Alexius' workshop with the promise of a real bath holding back gagging. 

"You must be joking," Dorian says. 

Seggrit shrugs. "You said soap, I got you soap. Don't offer no refunds if it's not to your standards." Again, the _you poncy northern idiot_ is left unsaid. 

In desperation, Dorian goes to Vivienne. She commiserates with him as to the general standards of both luxury and hygiene in Ferelden, and Dorian is only mildly jealous that the people of Haven want to impress her nearly as badly as they want him to conveniently fall in a crevasse.

She pats his hand. "I will do what I can, my dear." 

Two weeks later she returns from a regular jaunt to Val Royeaux with two small pots. The scent is a deeply Orlesian floral--rose? lavender? Dorian's not paid enough attention to the floral end of the spectrum, clearly--that reminds Dorian somewhat strongly of dowager aunts. Still, it's something he'd consider putting against his skin and his thanks are quite genuine. He can sense Vivienne entering his favored owed in her internal logbook. It's an acceptable cost. 

The problem then becomes arranging for the bath itself. 

He has no illusions he'll turn a corner and stumble upon an errant thermae -- Fereldens don't much seem to go for bathing period, much less civilized bathhouses. He has seen the good commander strip down to smallclothes and run into a river with little floes of ice bobbing on the current. 

Dorian does not intend to engage in cleanliness as a survival sport, thanks ever so much. He _misses_ the discrete attendants of Minrathous, with their towels and jars and almost universally strong hands and well-sculpted torsos. (Such torsos caused him to accidentally boil a hundred naked men from a caldarium at the age of fourteen. Fire has always been his magical weakness.)

But it is the memory of slinking out of the baths after that incident that gives him the idea of what to do next: heat his own damn water. 

He's able to procure use of a tub from Josephine with a small amount of pleading a solemn promise that he'll stop baiting Mother Giselle whenever she happens to be in earshot. That stings a tad, considering her machination on behalf of House Pavus, but Josephine's, "I understand she has been somewhat intrusive into your personal affairs," softens the blow a bit. 

Dorian doesn't actually want to make the good ambassador's life more difficult and, however galling the Mother's actions, he meant it when he told the Inquisitor her intentions were good. (Some small, poisonous voice in the back of his head chimes in that his father's intentions were good, for a certain selective value of good. He shushes it.) 

The tub -- a bit dented and quite possibly older than Dorian himself, but spacious and without leaks -- is kept in a odd, out of the way room that was probably storage space for the previous occupants. It doesn't bear even a marginal resemblance to the elegant pools and tiled mosaics of home. Still, the essential necessities are present and Dorian's not so spoiled a brat that he can't move water from one container to another. 

And the water is the vastly more time consuming part. Dorian spares one longing thought toward the aqueducts of home, and a general attitude toward magic that permits its use for little daily conveniences. The ability to haul buckets in no way means he _enjoys_ it, but no matter. Perhaps if he can successfully bring some southern notions of equality to Tevinter, he can offer bathhouses and sewers to the south as thanks. 

Once the tub is full, it's a far simpler matter to press a hand to the side and set the water to steaming. The heat is blissful; Dorian sighs as he plunges his hands in. Skyhold's cold seeps into his bones and no amount of heaped blankets really dispels it. 

In Minrathous, his eagerness would be at best a touch uncouth, but he's not in Minrathous and there aren't other bathers or even attendants to watch from the corners of their eyes and whisper comments to each other. Not that he enjoys the general Inquisition attitude of _Tevinter bastard and also a mage_ , but there's at least a certain simplicity of being assigned the villain role. 

There is a very minor relief in not being dissected for minor mistakes to be leveraged into political favor. Hail, Imperium, etc. 

He strips quickly, neatly folding his clothes on a chair in the corner, and steps into the bath. The water's warm enough to set his skin prickling and it's _glorious_. "Ah, venhedis," he sighs, making a mental note to find some more expressive means of thanking Josephine. True warmth eases over his skin and into his core. 

Not the paltry warmth of a fire and layered blankets, or the sticky chilled warmth of running through every dank and rainy corner of Thedas. Real warmth. He may never leave the bath. 

The tub isn't large enough for him to stretch out, more's the pity, but Dorian settles with his head tipped back against the raised rim, elbows on the edges, and the water comes up nearly to his neck. Steam rises in a thin mist off the surface. It makes his head swim just a touch, but not unpleasantly so. 

It's quiet, candlelight dim and golden, and Dorian exhales long and slow. Tension, so constant that he's stopped noticing it, begins to slowly unwind. When he closes his eyes he's not suddenly in Minrathous, but nor is he in Skyhold. Soldiers aren't training beneath his window. The wounded and dying aren't groaning in the courtyard. The heavens aren't uneasy and scarred over his head. 

And then someone knocks. 

Dorian hisses out a string of deeply unflattering Tevene invective, half of which can't properly be translated into Common. He should have expected this, of course. With as many people as the Inquisition has pushed into a confined space, privacy is more valuable than gold. There's probably a schedule somewhere; from 1:00 to 1:30, Jane and Dick have uninterrupted use of the backroom. May their time be mutually satisfactory. 

He glowers at the door. Silence is an option, but that risks whoever it is deciding to burst in. Dorian has no particular desire for his, ah, _intimate_ adornments to become fodder for salacious rumor. He has seen far too many of his companions _in flagrante delicto_ and refuses to join their number. It's a matter of personal dignity. 

"You'll have to find somewhere else," Dorian says through gritted teeth. "I have no intention of clearing out for at least an hour." 

The latch lifts and Dorian is halfway out of the tub before he hears, "What if I'm looking for you?" and sees Bull, grinning like a cat who got cream, canary, and praise for its misdeeds. 

Dorian falls back into the tub with a splash that slops water over the sides. He shifts his glower to Bull as Bull steps inside, closes the door, and properly latches it. There's perhaps a thin thread of embarrassment from forgetting to do the same that gives conviction to his annoyance. 

"Is there something difficult about 'find somewhere else'?" Dorian says peevishly. 

Bull shrugs. "Nah. What about 'I was looking for you'?"

"Perhaps I didn't want to be found."

Bull raises an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting?" 

If he says yes, Bull will go, Dorian knows that. It's still very new, this thing between them. Inasmuch as one drunken night, two additional sober ones, and a handful of breathless moments kissing in alcoves large enough to accommodate Bull constitutes a _thing_. Dorian taps his fingers against the side of the tub. He feels exposed and at a distinct disadvantage and that unspools a traitorous rush of heat in his belly. 

Damn his cock for an uncooperative bastard. He swallows and raises his chin with as much dignity as can be mustered. "I suppose I can forgive it. Is there a particular reason you were looking for me?" 

Bull crosses to the tub and, much to Dorian surprise, kneels down beside it with a low grunt of effort. A dozen inquiries as to his well-being fill Dorian's mouth and he swallows them all down. Presumption can go both ways and their terms are hardly intimate enough for that. 

"Thought you might need a hand." Bull reaches for Vivienne's gifted jars and opens them. He inhales the scent and casts a curious look at Dorian. 

"Beggars can't be choosers," Dorian says. "And while I have been tempted to ask Leliana if one of her people could perhaps drop into an Imperium shop, I somehow doubted she'd consent to assigning spies to errands of personal hygiene. And anyway, how in the world did you come to think I'd need a hand?"

"Ben-hassrath."

"That is a descriptor, not an explanation." 

Bull chuckles. "Josie's proud of the tub. And I saw you looking cheerful with a towel instead of resigned."

It makes...sense, Dorian has to admit. "I am capable of bathing myself, you know."

"Yeah," Bull agrees. He pours soap into his palm. "Don't think you like to, though. Tip your head back."

He isn't _wrong_ , which is the perpetually infuriating and unsteadying thing about Bull. Dorian has gotten used to the mystique of the Imperium answering personal questions before they're ever asked. But the Imperium has no mystique for Bull, neither as a monster beneath the bed or as a land so distant it might as well be the setting for a fairy tale. 

Bull knows Tevinter, and somehow he keeps proving that he knows Dorian. It's unsettling. It's alluring? That, Dorian struggles with far more than the rumors about blood magic and brave children asking if he's ever eaten a still beating heart. 

He obediently tips his head back, and has only a moment to chastise himself before Bull's fingers are pushing through his hair. Bull's very large, very strong fingers covered in soap that smell of little spoiled luxuries. Dorian is entirely unable to stop a soulful groan as boneless, simple pleasure washes over him. 

Beneath the water, his cock begins to rise. Bastard. 

"That feels. Very. Nice," Dorian manages. 

Bull hums a noise. "I try."

"Why?" 

"Why what?" 

Dorian forces his eyes open, with a great amount of effort. "Why try. Why do this?" 

The question immediately feels far, far too honest and Dorian quite sincerely wishes he could swallow it back down to the pit of his stomach where such things belong. That Bull's hands keep rubbing is a small comfort. His silence less so. 

"I figured you'd like it," Bull says, after a long pause. "You're spoiled, and you know it, and so does everyone else. But you don't actually ask for that much. I knew you weren't gonna. I think it's easier for me to offer than it is for you to ask."

Exposed, _again_. "I don't--"

"Don't worry about it," Bull cuts him off, gently. "Take it as I wanted to do it."

"Very well." Dorian leans back again. It only takes a few moments for Bull's strong hands to ease away the tension again. Dorian wiggles his fingers beneath the surface of the water and reheats it, back to steaming.

It's peaceful. Despite Bull's presence, Skyhold and the Inquisition and their problems and concerns still seem very far away. Dorian feels clean in a way that he hasn't since he fled Minrathous. Even the scent seems less excessively floral than it did in the jar. 

Bull scoops water in his hands and pours it over Dorian's head, rinsing once, twice, the movements unhurried, Bull's fingers still strong against Dorian's scalp. "Question."

Dorian hums an interrogative noise. 

"How many attendants back home gave you handjobs in the bath?" 

"I--" Dorian squawks, perfectly aware that the only reason he isn't blushing is because he's already flushed from heat and there's nothing left to color his cheeks. "That's absurd. I would never."

Bull's laughter fills the room. One hand, slick with soap and far too big, lands on his shoulder, pulling him back against the side of the tub. Then, so very casually, it slides down his chest and into the water. Over his belly, slick and certain. To his cock, which boiled bathers out of the baths and made at least two different attendants laugh and flash knowing looks at him. 

"You are," Dorian gasps, " _exceptionally_ presumptuous." 

"If it makes you feel better, I'm guessing you didn't ask. But if they offered?" 

Dorian swallows. His hips want very, very badly to press into that big hand. "What. What of it?"

"Nothing." Bull's voice is low, hot, immediate in his ear. "Maybe you want to try it with someone who gives a shit about you?" 

One day. One day Bull will be wrong about something and Dorian will be there to see it.

He exhales. "Yes." Then, after a beat, "Please." 

Bull's hand wraps around him. 

It is nothing at all like those clandestine encounters in the baths, when he was young and eager and each time he swore to himself it didn't mean anything. House Pavus had expectations and he still very much meant to fulfill them, then. Those were frantic clashes, Dorian's touches awkward and clumsy while the attendants bit back their laughter.

He suspected then it was a kind of game to them, and resented it. With distance, he understands better. He doubts they would feel any kinship with him, but. He understands recklessness for the sake of control. Choosing to do a foolish thing is still a choice. He has some strange gratitude for those rough touches, and the seed of truth they planted inside him. 

Bull's hand is big and his touch implacable, but there's nothing frantic. They won't be caught, because there's no one who would care to look. Dorian arches into Bull's hand and his head thumps against Bull's shoulder rather than the tub. Bull chuckles, but it's low and heated more than amused. 

"Fuckin' priss," Bull says -- affectionately? Dorian is almost positive -- and squeezes his cock. 

The water laps against the sides of the tub as Dorian's hips come up. He has no room to move in the tub, to thrash or writhe as much as he damn well wants to. The water makes everything slippery and he can't get any proper purchase. 

He can feel Bull's shoulder work as he strokes Dorian in a steady, maddeningly unhurried rhythm. Dorian has nothing else to hold onto; he wraps his hands around Bull's arm and digs his fingers in. The musculature beneath is hard, obviously strong, arousing. Dorian feels like an idiot teenager gawping at oiled gladiators, never thinking someone might notice. 

"Bull, Bull, I _can't_." 

"Don't have to." A nipping kiss on his jaw. "Just come for me."

It might not be meant as an order, but Dorian's body takes it as such and he does. He contracts inward, thumping against the immoveable hold of Bull's arm. Water sloshes over the rim of the tub. Dorian slams his heels against the side. Bull's hand keeps moving as Dorian spends himself and once he's finished, it moves only to his chest to keep him above water. 

Dorian comes back to himself slowly, head lolling, eyes on the frothy water and the distinct color and shape of the gold rings through his nipples. 

The water now comes to the bottom of his ribs and it's tepid. His heart still hammers in his chest. Bull thumps an affectionate hand on his shoulder and stands. Dorian's immediate interpretation is that Bull means to leave and it drops stones into his gut, but no. Of course not. 

Bull fetches the towel and offers Dorian an arm. "Can you stand?"

"Yes, of course," Dorian says, and it's half true. His legs only try to give out once he's most of the way upright and Bull, in a rare display of courteous discretion, doesn't comment as he gets a hand around Dorian's waist. 

Bull is perhaps more brisk drying Dorian off than a bathhouse attendant would be, but it has the benefit of reminding his loose limbs that they have jobs to do other than hanging in limp satisfaction from his torso. Dorian feels slightly ridiculous standing there, dripping, as Bull buffs him dry. 

He reaches out and hesitantly brushes his fingers against the place where Bull's skin becomes horn. Bull looks up at him, mouth cocked into a grin, and anything wry Dorian planned to say dries up in his throat. "You're welcome," Bull says. "My pleasure. I mean that." 

Dorian nods. To his surprise, he believes it.


End file.
